Defining Devotion
by slyprentice
Summary: From the moment that Peter Petrelli was born, he had a way of redefining Nathan’s life for the good and for the bad. Petrellicest. Slash.
1. Prologue

**Defining Devotion**  
By Prentice (slyprenticegma...)

**Rating**: 17+  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Pairing**: Nathan/Peter  
**Warnings**: This deals with some fairly heavy issues, namely: alcoholism, terrorism, non-con and bad French (accents) language skills. If any of these bother you, I'd say you'd better abandon ship now.  
**Timeline**: This is set after the events of season one with things picked and chosen from the first three episodes of season two. Yes, Peter still has amnesia.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything but the storyline and a few random characters, all of which are used and abused to the fullest extent.  
**Summary**: From the moment that Peter Petrelli was born, he had a way of redefining Nathan's life; for the good and for the bad.

**Author's Notes**: (1) I don't know French. Okay, I do, but I'm really, really bad at it so in the spirit of not abusing a beautiful language, I decided to use a very unreliable translator for this story. I wish I could say that it worked amazingly but it doesn't, so please, if you do know French don't be offended and feel free to share the proper spelling of said sentences. (2) I toy with timelines all the time and do what suits my character's needs. (3). If you're looking for smut, don't look here. It's going to be a long time in coming (heh!). (4) I need a beta and an alpha reader for this story; I know.

_**Addendum (10/10)**: Many, many thanks to _Golden Sylphide_ for correcting my atrocious French; I hope it makes more sense now! _

* * *

_**Defining Devotion**  
by Prentice_

_Prologue _

The glimpses of the future are vague at best; clouded by the haze of uncertain change. Nathan Petrelli doesn't mind that. He lived with this kind of ambiguity for most of his life. Hell, since the moment he was born.

"Are you sure you saw him?" His words are slurred but steady, intent in a way that belies the alcohol raging in his veins. The smoky curl of bourbon and too much whiskey churns in his gut, the fumes burning his nostrils. Nathan's tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth and he wonders, albeit briefly, when was the last time he brushed his teeth. "Because I don't like to be fucked with, Antoine, _comprenez-vous_? Last time –"

The sharp volley of rapid fire French crackling through the line makes his jaw clench and a muscle above his right eye begin to twitch. His head is pounding and the hand lying against his thigh has a tremor in it. The itchy feel of drying sweat makes him want to squirm but he doesn't.

"_Ne me fais pas avaler ca_!" He growls after a moment, the painful lance of his own voice making his stomach churn. "I don't care _how_ goddamn sure your informant was. I want _your_ eyes on him, Antoine._ Peu importe ce qu'il en coûtera, débrouillez vous pour que ça soit fait_!"

With that, he ends the call. The satisfaction of stabbing his thumb with more force than necessary into the tiny keypad of his cell phone, nearly crushing it with force, is almost overwhelming. For two days he'd been waiting on this call, two days of the creepy crawls of addiction itching at his skin, and the fumes of alcohol beckoning his return.

He'd finally given in an hour ago: bourbon with a half-bottle whiskey chaser. He wants more already. His taste buds are clamoring for just another sip, just another swallow.

"Idiot," he mutters disgustedly, scrubbing a hand over his features. Beneath his arms, the fabric of his t-shirt is soaked with perspiration, the heat of his own body unbearable even in the cool of the air conditioned apartment. He doesn't know how much longer he can take this. How much longer his body will withstand the kind of destruction he's been laying into it for weeks now. Will it be before he finds his brother, or after, when it finally gives up and gives in?

"Idiot," he says again, just to hear a voice in the hush of his – Peter's – his apartment. It'd been months since anyone else's voice had sounded here. Not since he'd thrown his mother out, her high heels tapping against the floor like the pinpoints of hypodermic needles, has anyone but himself voiced anything in this space.

He hates that.

He hates that their mother – _his mother_ – _Peter's mother_ – was the last person aside from himself to say anything at all within these walls. Even if it had been months ago now; months when she'd still been alive, still been breathing, still been so fucking tainted by evil that Nathan could hardly stand the sight of himself in the mirror because of what she'd almost made him become.

He still couldn't, really. Staring into his own eyes, ones that had shinned back with fierce, nearly animalistic determination before, now only reminded him of what his mother said, what his mother wanted.

_Lead him, Nathan,_ she'd whispered to him once. _Mold him. Make him into who he needs to be. _She'd touched his cheek then, cupping it in her hand, staring up at him. The gesture would have seemed motherly to anyone looking but the hunger in her eyes belied the simple act. _For us, Nathan. For _you.

His skin sometimes crawls with the thought of it. The way he'd kissed her cheek, another familial gesture to any onlooker, and nodded his assent as though his little brother were nothing but a toy to manipulate. To create. To destroy.

"Oh, Pete," Nathan whispers, his throat tight with anguish and eyes stinging with unshed tears. His mother's words from weeks ago still echoed in his mind.

_If you'd followed our plan, if you'd done what you were supposed to do, he'd still be alive now._

Closing his eyes, he ignored the hot tracks of tears down his face. Over the months, when his mother was no longer welcome, he'd tried so many times to wash those words away. Tried to make them disappear from the walls, from his mind, and most especially from his heart, but his drunken, weeping cries for and to his brother were nothing in comparison to that betrayal.

Even in the dark of night, when his voice is nothing more than a slow slurring murmur, his nightly bottle clinking against the wooden floors, and his words of love pouring out of his mouth to the walls around him, soaking up his pain and devotion, does he feel like he was washing them away. Sometimes, in his more sobriety induced lucid moments, he thinks that they might never be gone. That they might stain the walls of this apartment forever, even when he is dead and gone, buried and forgotten by time and the elements.

_Or maybe_, he reflects, opening his eyes to stare blankly at the ceiling, his cell phone sliding out his hand to the couch cushions beside him, _I'm just nuts_.

End Prologue

* * *

**French translations**: Which may or may not be correct... 

1. _Comprenez-vous - Do you understand?_  
2. _Ne me fais pas avaler ca! - Don't give me this shit!  
3. Peu importe ce qu'il en coûtera, débrouillez vous pour que ça soit fait.__ - No matter what it takes, just get it done!  
_


	2. Chapter 1

_Please see the prologue for summary and disclaimer._

**Author's Note**: (1) Thank you to everyone who was kind enough to give me feedback. It gives me a giddy thrill. :) (2) The next chapter probably won't be out until sometime closer to next week or mid-week next week. This weeks episode (Kindred 2.03) forced me to have to rewrite a large chunk of the next chapter to keep a few items in the fore so...look for it then! (3) For those who don't wish to read this on the site, you can also read it on my livejournal (slyprentice) or you can join my yahoo group for parts.

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**Chapter 1**

_"There is no law of progress. Our future is in our own hands, to make or to mar. It will be an uphill fight to the end, and would we have it otherwise?" – Quote Section 1, William Ralph Inge_

Quinn stares out at the glittering lights of the shipping dock below with something akin to disgust in his eyes. His face, made up of unremarkably sharp angles, is, however, completely blank. He's been in this business for far too long to advertise his emotions for all to see, especially with what he's about to do.

_The shipping crate_, he thinks, crouching low on the crest of the hill just above the docks. Rain slides down the back of his neck as he moves, cold and biting, but easily ignored after years of training and experience. _Nine-one-oh-nine, third row back. _

He's memorized the information that Antoine Girard – the _Frenchman_, he thinks with distaste – fed him only hours ago. _Neuf-un-zero-neuf. _ The man was careful to pronounce each number, very careful, as though Quinn was a fucking moron.

_Goddamn frog_, he thinks, almost absently, reaching a hand into the inner pocket of his heavy jacket, the small pair of binoculars he keeps there sliding into his hand. He poises them in front of his face, staring out at the large metal shipping crates. They're exactly where they're suppose to be, their multi-colored surfaces moist and glistening from the rainfall that had stared an hour ago.

The main entrance to the shipping yards would be chain linked and padlocked more than likely. Something easily dealt with the proper supplies, Quinn knows. The dock yard security guard, however, is another story. _Absolument aucunes __décès_

Absolutely no deaths, the Frenchman had said. No deaths. A completely foreign concept for Quinn but one that he'll stick to for the moment or, well, for at least as long as it suites him out here in the cold rain.

Sliding the binoculars back into his pocket, Quinn pushes himself to his knees, ignoring the sopping mud on his clothes, and wipes a hand over his wet features. It's a futile gesture but one that doesn't matter. He'll be warm and dry soon enough, after he's finished with what he was sent here to do. _Rapportez-le, indemne, pour que je voie. _

_Bring him back, unharmed, for me to see.  
_

* * *

Nathan Petrelli wakes to the sickening taste of stale vomit in the back of his throat, the slimy film of sleep covering his tongue, and eyelids gritty from either too much or too little sleep, he can't be sure. His body is hunched around the toilet, somehow managing to wedge itself in the small space between the bathtub's wall and the porcelain veneer of the commode, with one arm twisted painfully behind his back. His feet and legs are slightly numb, heavy with lack of circulation, twitching in awkward painful movements. Nausea churns in his belly, the pungent bittersweet smell of sickness and toilet water invading his nostrils. 

The textured glass of a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels lies heavily against his bare thigh, resting in the crook of twisted limbs. He can't remember how he managed to get here or even at what point in the night – or was it day? – that he had started to drink, drink, and drink some more. He just remembers the half-dreamed feel of his insides trying to crawl out through his throat in one giant heave. Before and after that is a blank.

_I need to eat, _he thinks; pulling his arm from around his back, the sharp knife pains of protesting muscles making him wince. His stomach gurgles dangerously at the thought of choking something down but he knows he has no choice. When was the last time he'd eaten something anyway? He could vaguely recall crackers, salty crackers – or were they the cheese kind? – at some point in time but can't remember what meal or day that had been. _Definitely need to eat something._

Gritting his teeth against the urge to gag, acid burning at the back of his throat, the thirty-four year old scrubbed a hand over his face, the other balancing against the toilet and pushing, forcing himself into a more upright and comfortable position. Muscles screamed in protest at the movement, the hours of being twisted and abused making themselves known. The bottle of Jack on his thigh clinks to the floor, the sound obscenely loud in the silence, and Nathan shoves it away irritably.

The gummy feel of his lips, sticky from congealed drool, is appalling. Or would be if he gave a notion to noticing, which he doesn't. Instead, he scrubs a hand over his face, the aching indentions of the toilet impression on the side of his jaw smooth under the scruff of his beard.

The smell of his own sweat makes him cringe and think of a hot shower but he knows he hasn't the energy. He doesn't even have the willpower to stand yet, tingling legs aside, so he pushes the idea away. Maybe he'd get around to it later.

_Or maybe not_, he thinks abruptly, the roiling in his stomach worsening. He can feel his body trembling, the shaky swallows of breath puffing out of his mouth. He doesn't want to be sick, his throat is raw and oddly dry, and the idea of sticking his face into the bowl is tantamount to the act of throwing up itself but mostly, he's just tired of doing this.

This being what is happening now: waking up to hugging the toilet, the smell of vomit and liquor in the air and on his clothes and skin. Sometimes he doesn't even wake up near the toilet. Just sprawled on the ground, a pool of vomit on the floor or, worse, on his clothes, and wondering what the world would think if they saw him now. The great Nathan Petrelli, ex-foremost runner to be the next President Elect, sitting in crusty boxer shorts that belonged to his brother with vomit on his breath.

_How the mighty have fallen,_ he muses sardonically, pressing a shaky hand to his forehead to wipe away the sweat. The heavy smack of his Rolex against his forehead seems to pound right into his temples, the lumberjacks of pain chiseling away at him. It's enough to distract him from his rebelling gut and bring a startling pinpoint of clarity to his mind.

Lowering his hand, he stares at his wrist, at his watch, the queasy swirls of nausea making his lips thin to a quivering line. The watch had been a gift from Peter two years ago, it's clunky and surprisingly weighty bulk packaged with tender care inside its box, the black and steel glinting when he opened it. He can still remember his little brother's face when he'd given it to him.

_I saw it, _Peter had murmured, lifting the watch from the box in Nathan's hand, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled down at it. _I saw it and thought of you, Nathan. _His eyes had lifted and searched Nathan's own, something tender and changeable and completely out of Nathan's grasp shinning in them. _It's just like you. _

Lifting his hand in a gentle grasp, his little brother had slid the Rolex onto his wrist, fingertips ghosting over the edges of the watch, brushing the sensitive flesh of his wrist. Peter had clasped it, brushing his thumbs down the steel bands on each side when he was done, staring up at him in a way that even now makes Nathan's breath catch. Peter had looked at him like he was everything to him.

'Thanks, Pete,' he remembers whispering and he whispers it again despite his nausea and the stink of the toilet. "Thanks, Pete." _I miss you._

End Chapter 1  
_Opinions welcome._


	3. Chapter 2

Please look at the prologue for summary and disclaimer.

**Author's Note**: About half-way through rewriting this section, I decided to cut it in half, which means, basically, that this part is rather short for a chapter, however, I decided that the content more than made up for that. Also, some might say that this chapter lacks some of the emotional oomph of the pervious sections but, believe me, it's there, lurking in the wings, waiting for it's moment...

* * *

**Chapter 2**

_"The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty, not knowing what comes next." – Ursula K. LeGuin_

Antoine Girard is a lean man. Tall and lithe, his muscles are not corded beneath his skin like steroid bunched stones, but smooth, stretchable, and imperceptible to the naked eye. He prefers it that way and takes meticulous care to keep himself in 'fighting trim', as they say.

_Il __faut__casser__ le __noyau__ pour __avoir__l'amande_ he reminds himself, smoothing a hand down the material of his cotton button down, the soft fabric caressing his body and making gooseflesh ripple down his spine. His skin is warm beneath the cloth, deliciously so, and he can't help but dig his fingernails into the material over his stomach, humming almost indiscernibly at the sting.

The swish of his light cotton pants – white, as per his usual attire - is quiet as he turns and makes his way back to his desk, bare feet slapping against the polished wooden floor of his study. His dirty blonde hair flops against his forehead as he moves, the prickle of it like a fly walking. He must get it trimmed soon, possibly this afternoon, but first, he has business to attend to.

Settling himself behind his desk, a surprisingly modern looking affair of chrome and glass in a room filled with antiques and worn leather, he settles a hand over the wireless mouse of his computer and jerks it sharply to the right. The flat screen monitor before him flickers to life, a strangely feminine background of lilies and pearls coming into focus, before being obscured by a digital address book. The entry he had made not long ago is still blinking, the name and various contact numbers bolded in blue.

_Quinn_. His lips curl upwards at the sight, teeth flashing shiny white in the afternoon sun. How _merveilleux_ it was to irritate the man; to tempt and disturb him. One day, perhaps, he would have to do it in person.

_But for now_, he decides, jerking the mouse again until the tiny arrowed cursor is atop the small dash at the corner of the screen, minimizing the address book and its contents. _For now, I must make a phone call._

Swiveling in his chair, the Frenchmen reaches for his phone and dials the Petrelli number by memory.

* * *

"I don't know who I am." The words are out of his mouth and in the air, just hanging in the silence around him, waiting to be grasped up by some memory, some thought, some _something _that will tell him who or what he is but nothing so providential happens. Nothing at all. 

_What did you expect? _He wonders', lifting a half-poised damp clothe the rest of the way to his face and wipes the white-cloud foam of borrowed shaving cream away, the cologne smell of a store bought brand making his nose twitch. The tiny pearls of moisture beads on his skin, his shower from moments ago still warming his body and leaving his tanned skin rosy in the warm curl of leftover steam. A towel, soft and worn, hangs around his waist, the once-white terrycloth downy against him.

_I expected…_

The pulse of something he can't name thrums through him, beating to the throb of his heartbeat. It grips his mind like a vice, the pressure of unknown and forgotten memories pushing and bending until it's nearly a physical pain. Nearly a physical blow.

_I expected…_

He doesn't know. He just doesn't. What he expects, what he wants, is a blank and a void; an empty place that cannot be filled. Even his subconscious, which is pushing and pulling at him for something, doesn't know.

_What am I supposed to do? Who am I supposed to be? _What_ am I supposed to be?_

_Peter. _The name comes unbidden to him, spilling into his mind like a cascading waterfall, washing away his uncertainty for just a moment. The box, the thing that holds him, the thing that says who he is, what he is, if he's good, if he's bad – in it, it says he's Peter.

"You are Peter," he whispers to his reflection, staring intently into features he can't even remember, before he drops his towel, the soppy clunk of it filling his ears, and turns to the wooden peg behind him that holds his flannel shirt and jeans.

End Chapter 2

* * *

**French Translation**: Which may or may not be right... 

1. _Il __faut __casser__ le __noyau__ pour __avoir __l'amande__ - No pain, no gain. (This is my understanding of this phrase, if I'm wrong, please forgive me.)_

2. _merveilleux__ - wonderful_


	4. Chapter 3

Please look at the prologue for summary and disclaimer.

Author's Note: (1) I'm sorry for the delay in posting. I started off the week with a bad cough and ended it with a bad tummy bug. Needless to say, I'm not feel great right now but I wanted to get this posted. Thank you to everyone whom left feedback! It's cherished.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 3**

_'There is nothing so unholy pathetic as a man pretending that everything is all right when he is standing at the gates of Hell." _

Nathan sticks his head under the faucet once he's on his feet, albeit wobbly. He does it before he can think better of it and manages to keep his gasp from becoming a gag only by sheer force of will. The treacherous knowledge that his retching will only lead to painful dry heaving is enough to make his lips thin to a white slash across his face. He doesn't think he could handle that, at least not right now.

_Or ever_, he prays impenitently, pressing trembling fingers to the side's of his face. The cold water on his neck and through his hair is a serrated knife to his nerve ends; cutting away at him until he's leaning against the sink pedestal more than standing, shivering with cold. His mind seems to stutter and start in painful reckless spurts, strengthening the ache between his eyes and in his heart.

His elbows, pointy and sharp after too many missed meals, are tucked tightly against his stomach, forearms taking the brunt of his weight as he leans, halfheartedly splashing water against his face. The chilly liquid is like little biting kisses, stinging against his cheek, his forehead, the bridge of his nose. It makes him want to cry.

_Fucking God, Pete, _he thinks, cupping his hands beneath the spout and bringing a pool to his gooey lips, sucking in a shallow mouthful before wiping away the dried drool with hasty swipes. He slides his tongue over his teeth as he swallows, the grimy feel of too much plague rough and sour against his taste buds. He scraps it against their edges and the slim film of sleep comes off in a vinegary line of gunk, making him grimace and spit before bringing another pool of water to his dry lips to swish and swirl until the acrid taste recedes. _I'm pathetic._

_You're not pathetic, Nathan._ Peter's voice is in his head, a sudden warm reassurance and tangible in a way that makes it like a blade cutting jagged in his heart. The tender ghost of his little brother's hand is soft against his cheek, phantom fingertips velvety on his roughened skin, as though his baby brother's here with him, pulling him close, and this is not just a memory, a hallucination of want, but real. _You'll never be pathetic._

_Not with you, Pete. You kept me up, kept me high, kept me human. __For as long as I had you._The truth of it pounds in his chest, an unsteady rhythm to a regular beat. _For as long as I had you._Tears blur in his vision, aching and hot, running down his face in watery rivulets that drip from his chin and mix with the faucet water disappearing down the drain. _But I don't, anymore._

Closing his eyes, he whirls more water in his mouth, using shaking fingers to scrub at his teeth, the bloody taste of heartache in his tightened throat, before pushing himself up on tremulous arms. His muscles cord beneath his skin, smaller and less defined than what they used to be but still there, still strong. The medicine cabinet's mirror is strangely clean, unblemished by all the things it's seen since he's moved in, and shinning at him with unforgiving light above the sink.

Lifting a quaking hand, Nathan touches his reflection, hollow brown eyes staring back at him. They're dimmer, somehow, than he last remembers, like the light behind them has been crushed or extinguished; dulled to nothing by grief and drink. His face is pale beneath his beard, which in turn is scraggly and specked with day old dried vomit. His cheeks, blush red, are sunken in, giving him a strangely skeletal appearance.

Even his clothes, a thin military green cotton t-shirt flecked with stale booze and a crusty pair of his brother's boxers – _Superman logos, Pete? It's _funny, _Nathan _– make him look like someone else, someone who isn't a Petrelli.

_Who am I supposed to be – _the clanging hum of his cell phone twittered from the other room, the din of music a prickly sound in the back of his skull – _without you?_

* * *

Matt Parkman leans heavily against the kitchen counter, cell phone tucked between ear and shoulder, looking tiredly down at the dirty dishes in the sink. A green tinted glass, thick bottomed, and a plain white plate with a few stray breadcrumbs left from his sandwich. It hadn't been anything special; just cheese with a slice of bologna that tasted like sawdust going down.

_C'mon, c'mon, pick-up already. _The mantra has been in his head for too long now, a silent buzz drowning out the swirl of thoughts pressing in on him. It's difficult to concentrate on anything else but their sound and urgency. _Pick-up.__Pick-up.__ Damn it, pick-up!_

"Hello. You've reached–"

With a disgruntled snarl, Matt snaps his phone closed, cutting off the message before it can finish. The urge to throw the damn thing across the room is nearly overpowering but he forces back the impulse, pocketing it instead. The weight is hardly noticeable in his slacks, just a gentle tug of weight as he shifts.

"Goddamnit," he scowls, bracing his palms against the hard edge of the countertop. Why the hell did the man choose now, of all times, to ignore his call?

_Face it, Parkman,_ he commiserates, glancing over his shoulder to the empty apartment beyond. He could see the wooden coat peg that held his own discarded jacket and – Molly's – by the door. _Y__ou're going to have to do this one alone._

The red of his would-be daughter's coat glowed like a jewel in the dark interior of the other room, its shinning surface like cherry blood, vibrant with accusation.

_All alone._

_End Chapter 3_


End file.
